She is my mother.
She might be a whore,
By the whore clothes she wore,
But she is my mother,
She might be vain,
Cocain in her vein,
Marijuana in her brain,
Hitch hiking life's train,
But she is my mother,
She might be homeless,
Because she is jobless,
But don't mess with her,
She is my mother,
She might be just another woman to you,
Just another human being in the world,
Swelling up the statistics for Aids,
Just another face in the crowd,
One more delinquent to deal with,
But don't you dare mess with her,
She is my mother,
She bore me for nine months,
Fed me and sheltered with whatever life she had,
She never gave me less than she had,
She gave me her warmth and love,
She gave me what she could,
In a silent moment of loving me,
Giving me all she had,
Right in the womb she gave me AIDS,
But don't mess with her,
She is my mother,
My imperfect mother,
Beaten and broken by circumstances of her birth,
My weak mother,
My sinful mother,
My precious mother,
She felt all the birth pangs of my birth,
And I hear I had a big head at birth,
Don't you dare mess with her,
She is my mother.
*one of the things which rings so true in my personal life with that of the young man/institution I impersonate in the poem is the love for my mother...
© 2010 afeseh ngwa hilary
